


Behind Blue Eyes

by orphan_account



Series: John's Muse, Sherlock's Angel [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Blow Jobs, Demon!Irene, Irene Adler/Molly Hooper - Freeform, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Muse!Sherlock, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Painplay, Possessive!John, Reaper!Molly, Rough Sex, Semi-Clothed Sex, Semi-Public Sex, angel!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 05:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/475030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm terrible at summaries, so here, have some lyrics by The Who instead:</p><p> </p><p>  <i>No one knows what it's like to be the bad man, to be the sad man, behind blue eyes.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Behind Blue Eyes

John and Sherlock didn’t have sex every night. Or make love, every night, although that was more frequent than the sex and usually followed one of Sherlock’s more mournful sonatas. Usually sex was for when Sherlock and/or John was bored – a rather infrequent occurrence – and making love was for when one or the other was upset, or hurt physically, or so overcome with love with no feasible way to explain it that physically became the only possibility, or whenever they simply felt like it. It was soft and slow, meant to be pleasurable. Sex was…normal, really, meant to reduce stress levels.

They hardly ever fucked, and even when they did, it was still consensual fucking. It was just rough, dirty, angry fight sex. Sherlock didn’t like it any less, but in some ways it frightened him as much as it aroused him. He loved John taking charge because he loved a challenge, but the angry and violent John was not the John he fell in love with. The protector John was who he fell in love with.

Sherlock twirled the dog tags between his fingers and tried to ignore the burning he felt on his penis. He had rug burn from where John had shoved him face-first on the carpet and fucked him hard, living up to his promise to make Sherlock ‘fuck the carpet’ as Sherlock, unable to touch himself and John not touching him, rutted against the harsh fabric for release, scratches forming on his balls with every thrust. He could feel a hole being worn into the carpet, discoloured permanently now from dried pre-cum and actual cum and some blood. There were bruises and cuts on his penis, but John licked them off later on, caressing Sherlock’s thighs and reminding him very much of a lion cleaning his fur.

Sherlock shuddered as he grasped the dog tags firmly and leaked on his trousers slightly. He’d forgone pants that morning because too much pressure made him ache and bleed. He hadn’t even realized he’d gotten hard, remembering last night, but it didn’t surprise him. He had forcibly broken the bond between himself and John when he’d jumped off the roof and pretended to die, and in order for John to gain back his charge and the bond to be re-formed there had to be passion involved, and Sherlock had to be totally saturated with John’s scent. The process might take nearly a week. A week of John pounding into him, of sex on every available surface; up against the couch, up against the wall, on a slab in the morgue of St Bart’s –

Sherlock shuddered again and came. They’d been paying for one cabbie to take them from place to place so they wouldn’t get a reputation; and the cabbie, being a former Angel himself, seemed to understand what John and Sherlock were going through. It didn’t mean he appreciated the smell of sex, though, and sneered when Sherlock came with a small sigh. At least he hadn’t been touching himself this time, although John, sitting next to him, was smirking.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Sherlock tried to explain it all to Molly when he’d been living with her after the Fall, but it was of no use. Molly still didn’t believe John was an Angel, although she herself was a Reaper hiding from her calling. Whenever Sherlock tried to broach the subject, tried to explain it all to her, she smiled sadly and patted his hand.

She couldn’t really deny it now.

John had another moment of possessive anger – explosive, really, would have been a better adjective – upon hearing Irene’s text message alert sound and turning around to see Irene standing there, in the flesh. Irene hadn’t come for Sherlock – no, she had come for Molly and had, in her excitement, uncharacteristically butt-dialled as she sat on a bench, sucking on Molly’s nipple, hands snaking down through Molly’s pants, both blissfully silent for once.

Still, it wasn’t something either men needed or wanted to see (it was private business to John and disgusting to Sherlock), and John dragged him into the adjacent morgue.

‘She’s still alive,’ he snapped. There were awkward tears forming at his eyes and Sherlock wanted to brush them away, but found that he couldn’t. ‘You _lied_ to me.’

Sherlock didn’t think ‘I love you’ or ‘I’m sorry’ was an appropriate enough response, so he stood instead, looking pitifully sad at John. John breathed deeply in and blew the air out in one huff.

‘Turn around,’ he whispered. Sherlock bowed his head, mentally going through his list of things that might be appropriate to say in this situation. He didn’t say any of them, nor did he turn around.

John punched his face, bringing back memories of the first time he met Irene. Until then it hadn’t occurred to him what was going on. The punch was intentional, meant to bring back those memories. _Oh_. ‘I said turn around, Sherlock.’

Sherlock complied this time, head still bowed. He helped John rid him of his coat, tossed carelessly on the floor. John then groped Sherlock’s arse firmly, lifting him up and separating his cheeks. Sherlock moaned shamelessly; if Irene and Molly were allowed to have sex in the hallways, then he and John could do so in the morgue.

John nuzzled near Sherlock’s bum, right above his belt. Sherlock made to turn around and see, and John smacked him hard. 'Don’t turn around, Sherlock. I didn’t say you could do that.' Sherlock nodded and didn’t say anything. He whimpered slightly in anticipation as John drug his trousers down, scratching lightly over the bruises John had left the night previous. John caressed them up again, lovingly, and stuck his tongue in Sherlock without warning.

Sherlock gasped and clutched at the slab, knees buckling and knuckles turning bright white. His legs angled apart even further – as far as they could go, with his trousers still around his feet. His cock, before only half-hard by mere proximity to John, immediately sprung to life and hit the table with a _thunk_. He moaned as the aching head hit cold metal, arching his arse closer to John’s face. He could feel John smirking on his bottom, once again lifting Sherlock by his arse (while separating his cheeks), this time depositing him face-down on the table.

Sherlock lifted his arms so they lay above his head and let his hands spread out so he didn’t give into temptation to touch himself. Waiting was always better, especially when John was the ultimate prize. He could all but feel John smirk as he wriggled on the cold metal, his bum clearly searching for and missing John’s warm face as the table did its best to deflate his erection.

‘I will have you,’ John murmured darkly, ‘Right here, on this table, until you beg for mercy. Thrice.’

Sherlock felt a quick burn  and was rewarded with another as he turned his head to see the object he was smacked with: his own riding crop, accidentally left down here the last time he’d done an experiment.

The erection was back fiercely and painfully, unable to rise due to his position. Sherlock didn’t complain, merely groaned at the table. The denial was…undeniably delicious.

Only John could deny him things, only then would he allow it. He knew John would always give it to him in the end, but he had to learn first.

Sherlock heard the clink of John’s belt as he undid his trousers, but that was it. He registered that John must have removed his shoes to remain so quiet, but all further deductions drained from his mind as John stuck his tongue in Sherlock again. He lapped, slicking him up with his saliva and had Sherlock panting by the time he kissed Sherlock’s left cheek and bit down hard, creating an instant hickey where only John, only ever John, ever only John, could see it. Sherlock was sure the howl that escaped his lips at the feeling was not human, and returned to panting as John lifted his hips slightly, elevating him so that John could lick him, from slit of his penis, lightly down his shaft, sucking on his balls and through his opening, jabbing his tongue in and out obscenely, as if searching with his tongue for Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock was determined not to give in, not to beg because he wanted John to live up to his promise and make this challenge as difficult as possible for both men.

He was undone when he heard the squelch of John stroking himself, sweat and pre-cum and – and saliva from Sherlock’s bum, as John quickly thrust in, twisted and pulled away – serving as lubricant. Sherlock moaned onto the table top as he heard John’s breathing speed up and Sherlock imagined John stroking him the way John was stroking himself. He writhed on the table from the sounds alone and couldn’t help it as he screamed ‘God, John! Please! I’m begging you, fuck me now!’

Everything was silent, and Sherlock couldn’t determine if John had cum (impossible, John made very specific noises when he came) or not when he felt his hips lifted again, and something placed underneath them. John separated his thighs and cheeks even further, and when he placed Sherlock back down, Sherlock felt beneath him the soft fabric of John’s jumper.

Sherlock sighed into the table. ‘John, oh, John, mmm, thank you…’

‘Don’t want you getting an infection or letting you get any more irritated.’ He said it with monumental concern, walking to the front of the table to look in Sherlock’s eyes. He kissed Sherlock’s forehead, his nose between his eyes, and then his lips. Sherlock kissed back slowly, sighing out on the last touch of lips.

‘I’m sorry, John.’

‘I know you are,’ he whispered. ‘And I’m not that angry, not anymore. Just hurt.’

Sherlock could feel himself crying for his Angel – negative side-effects of being Bonded. ‘I’m so sorry, John.’

John patted his head and made toward Sherlock’s behind again. ‘I’m still going to live up to my promise, though, and that’s just the one time. We have two more to go.

And please, don’t make this easy on me. I’ll be able to tell if you’re faking.’ And with that, John drew a line from inside Sherlock’s anus to the cleft of his arse, and smacked down hard.

Sherlock’s hips arched off the table and thumped back down, the softness of John’s jumper cradling the fall of his slowly-deflating penis. He smiled to himself at the feeling, imagining John beneath him, perhaps going sixty-nine – Johns’ mouth enveloping his cock and sucking as Sherlock tried to pleasure him as well, _Oh_ –

Another crack of the riding crop, this time to Sherlock’s back, another arch of Sherlock’s hips, another landing on John’s delicate jumper.

John’s touch was gone for a few moments before coming back, softer this time, his fingers curving up Sherlock’s calves. Sherlock shivered but kept himself under control, remaining as still as possible as John outlined the curve of his buttocks, fingers turning into hands massaging the flesh and petting him, urging him farther apart. Sherlock rocked into his touch as it flounced from his thighs to his upper back, humping into John’s jumper slowly until John’s fingers left his bum and travelled the curve of his spine. Sherlock’s sides, ribs, abs were all sensitive and ticklish, and he giggled lowly as John stroked with deliberate and feather-light touches.  He felt up Sherlock’s arms, tracing the light blue veins.

Sherlock could feel him standing close enough to touch when the head of John’s penis touched his forehead. A bead of pre-cum leaked from John and travelled down Sherlock’s face. As Sherlock caught it with his tongue, he opened his eyes to peer through his lashes at John, and sucked John’s head into his mouth – the head only – and licked softly.

John shouted at the image and threw his head back, dragging his right hand from the bottom of Sherlock’s head to the top and curling Sherlock’s hair with this fingers. He began to thrust lightly and slowly, not forcing anything on Sherlock until he heard Sherlock moan for more. The thrusting picked up in earnest and the tug got tighter, more demanding.

‘Oh, Sherlock,’ John groaned, ‘Imagine all the things I’m gonna do to you. What I’m doing to your mouth right now – imagine that’s your arse. But I’m not going easy on you – no, I’m deepthroating your arse. Spread apart so wide you’ll even take in my balls. And I’ll not move, no. And then I’ll bind your hands and feet, sit you up right and fuck you ‘til you fuck the air and come without me even touching your prick.

Maybe that’s how we’ll go through this whole process,’ he continued. ‘I’ll find a stopper of some sort here and after I cum in you, we’ll plug you up. And then we’ll go home and I’ll fuck you again, get a proper plug for you. And I’ll just keep fucking and fucking you until your cum is just my cum.’

Sherlock moaned around John’s dick, arching his hips, and John removed himself from Sherlock’s mouth.

‘Sorry, love, what was that?’

‘ _Please,_ ’ Sherlock begged, panting.

John smiled and stepped backward. He placed a hand on himself and jerked hard, moaning. He lifted his hand and looked at the pre-cum/saliva mixture he had there. With his left hand, he pulled his boxers the rest of the way down, leaned on the counter behind him, and inserted two fingers into his hole, gasping.

‘Fuck!’ Sherlock shouted, his penis aching again for some release. Sherlock’s knuckles were white on the end of the table as he began to rub himself against John’s jumper, unable to stand the lack of contact for another second. He raised himself on his knees, wiggling his bum in the air. ‘John, please, fuck me now. Fuck me!’

John groaned and removed the two fingers, thrusting three in. Sherlock saw his cock twitch and rise further and sob, head down on the table so he could see his own smack his still-clothed belly button, pre-cum wildly leaking over everything.

‘God, John, you know there’s nobody but you, there never has been. I didn’t want Irene, I just wanted to make you – fuck! – jealous. Please, John, I’m begging, and I beg only for you. Fuck me now, please!’

John tilted his head, pulled up his pants and trousers, and did up his fly.

Sherlock let out a few tears now. ‘God, John, I’m sorry, I’ll wear a leash and collar, I’ll wear a hickey proudly – everybody should know it’s you, just you, and not to touch me, come near m-‘

In his shrieking he missed the sound of John un-doing his belt and fly again, and felt a surge of surprise (and relief) when John’s cock thrust into him, his arse squeezing against all of him – and very nearly almost squeezing his balls as well. John kissed below his ear and whispered, ‘I think just my dog tags will do, yeah?’ Sherlock felt John slipping the chain around his neck and Sherlock gasped in relief as John started to thrust slowly.

Somehow this wasn’t the same as the fucking last night. It was still intimate and intense, but calmer, not quite as angry. John breathed onto his neck, breath sucking in with every pull away and blowing out harshly with every thrust back in deep.

John took it slowly, bumping against and nudging Sherlock’s prostate as he stroked him through his sweater. Sherlock shivered when he started, pleased but still worried. ‘Why – why won’t you touch me, touch me with your hands?’

John kissed his shoulder blade, tugging at the skin lightly with his teeth. ‘Because you’re still raw, and I don’t want to hurt you. Still me, though, since this is still my sweater. It’s just more loving than I can be,’ he joked.

Sherlock frowned and looked behind him, his balls spasming and tightening as he saw John, still half-clothed, humping him slowly. He dragged John’s head to his so they could kiss, tongues dancing with each other. ‘You are the most loving human being I know. If anyone is unable, incapable of loving, it is I.’

John shook his head. ‘You can’t fool me Sherlock, not anymore. I know you love me, your heart is mine.’

‘Yours, John,’ he agreed with a sigh, thrusting in as John stroked him again through the fabric. ‘Nobody else has even touched it…not Irene…not Victor…only you.’

John paused. ‘Who’s Victor?’

Sherlock frowned at the table top and fucked John’s hand again, clenching down to drag John’s penis with him. ‘An Angel who once tried to take my heart. He could never find it.’

 _So that was what Mycroft meant, about me not hurting him_ , John thought.  He sighed and kissed Sherlock’s shoulder blades again, wrapping the rest of his jumper tightly around Sherlock’s penis and repositioning Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock was too busy being fucked within an inch of his life and John was too busy doing the fucking and listening to the sounds they produced through Sherlock’s instrument to notice two things, one of small importance and one of magnificent importance.

The first, smaller one was a frightened Molly Hooper, who stared blankly and opened mouth as John Watson drove himself ever further into Sherlock, continuing to thrust shortly after burying himself in Sherlock as far as humanly possible and coming straight up against his prostate (and Sherlock came howling madly, cock spurting inside the soft material of John’s jumper and riding out his orgasm on something soft; but Molly didn’t quite notice these things, since John was on top).

The second, which left poor Molly quite literally blinded, was two gigantic gold wings ripping out of John’s back as he tilted his head back and came, groaning.

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‘Do you think Molly will be okay?’ Sherlock asked, still twirling the dog tags between his fingers. John walked out of their bedroom stark naked, dragging Sherlock in and beginning to remove his clothes. A near-nightly ritual, until they were permanently bonded, and could back to sex for meaning something and sex for sex’s sake, and not sex because they were so unbearably and uncomfortably hungry for the other.

John pushed Sherlock into a sitting position on their bed and smiled softly. ‘I’m preparing for us to have sex, and you’re still dwelling on the fucking we did back in the lab. Why are we talking about Molly?’ Sherlock looked up at him with saddened, worried eyes. ‘I know you think you’re heartless,’ John kneeled in front of him, ‘but clearly, you’re not. Molly is your friend and she means a lot to you.’

‘Not as much as you do –‘ Sherlock corrected hurriedly.

‘No, I know that. I just mean – she’ll be fine. And don’t worry about yourself anymore either.’ John kissed Sherlock, tongue running over the cracks in his lips.

But Sherlock still sighed distractedly. John ran his hands through Sherlock’s hair. ‘What is it, love?’

‘When this is all over, will you be…bored with me?’

John looked up, eyes confused. ‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s just….’ Sherlock twiddled with the shirt he still had on, chewing his lips. ‘You always used to go around with women and I’m a pain to deal with and I just –‘ he sighed. And then he did something remarkable, and blushed brightly. ‘Do you really love me? I mean, are you really in love with me, not just love me in a hey-we’re-mates-we-might-as-well-fuck sort of way?’

John slapped him again. ‘Stop being a twat and asking questions you already know the answer to. Every time we’ve been together, intimately, I’ve felt my wings come out. Only you do that to me. And even when we’re not having sex, I hear them flutter, like my heartbeat. You’re the only one who sees them, and that’s a big deal. So feel special and stop asking stupid questions.’

‘Besides,’ he finished later as he spilled inside Sherlock and Sherlock came with a whimper, his cum coating his – John’s – dog tags, ‘As much as I love dominating and fucking you, I don’t have that much energy.’


End file.
